Notes: Still raw, still dark. Thanks to Dannyblue, Mandokee and Kandaf for the feedback.
Ruby Truth - Valentine Michel Smith
Chloe's hand lingered on Liz Ross's arm. The Torch editor nodded, catching Lana's eye. Lana sat opposite Pete's mother. Swaddled in hospital linen like a newborn, Pete looked tiny.
Judge Ross rearranged the sheets carefully. "I think this is the longest I've ever seen him still," she said, forcing a small smile.
Pete's arm was broken. Twelve stitches in the back of his head closed the gash. No concussion.
Chloe considered the possibilities. She really didn't have enough information to form any workable theories. Unless.
Chloe shook off the ridiculous. It wasn't possible. Clark Kent would have to be on drugs to be on drugs. She hadn't seen Clark since the study session. He'd acted...weird, granted. Then, there was the misfired Lana rendezvous. Again, uh why would something he wanted so badly go so horribly wrong? Nobody risked the wrath of The Fairy Princess.
Chloe made a mental note: stop referring to Lana as The Fairy Princess. Otherwise, she might slip and say it. Wait. Was that a "protect Lana" thought? Where'd that come from? Weirder, weirder. Not a lot of logic there for the seeing.
Clark on drugs? Chloe mulled the possibility as she padded across the room.
"Chloe," Pete's voice was thickened by painkillers.
"Yeah, Pete?"
"Thanks."
Chloe dug deep, and slapped on the "happy." "What're friends for?" she responded, face intolerably cheery.
Pete smiled, squeezing Lana's hand before she pulled away, following Chloe out the door.
Chloe turned abruptly in the corridor, empty and so familiar. "What're your plans for tonight?"
"Tonight?" Lana ran through the mental list. "None really. What've got in mind?"
"Brain storming session."
"Pete wasn't very helpful."
"At least he remains consistent." Chloe smiled wanly. "And something's up." Smallville was known for bad. Both Chloe and Lana exchanged a glance. Hopefully, things hadn't just gone from bad to worse.
The hospital parking lot was well illuminated. Even without the brilliance of sodium lights, Lex imagined tracking the two would be easy. He watched Lana climb into Chloe's vehicle. Chloe followed eyes bright, determined, shining in the darkness. Lana too had the posture of the focused, of one on a mission.
Lex hadn't felt the need to play billionaire detective since following Phelan. Now, here he was again, on surveillance duty because something was up. Pete was in the hospital. Clark was missing. And Jonathan Kent was dead.
Lex pulled the Lamborghini onto the road. Maybe the Kent Farm could provide an answer or two. He didn't want to make a pest of himself, but considering Mrs. Kent wasn't answering the phone, he'd take that chance.
Wind rustled, pricking Lex's ears. The normal sounds of the Kansas evening didn't warrant an afterthought, but the environmental silence made the normally unflappable businessman uneasy. No basketball or evening news; no clanking of flatware; no clatter of dinnerware. Strangest of all though was no aromas of Kent meals or pies or muffins.
Lex removed a Maglite from the glove box and twisted it on. The beam cut a triangular path as it swooshed around the surroundings.
He didn't see the glass until it cracked beneath his heel.
Lex shone the light as he stooped. Glass and... Lex touched the grass. Nearly dry blood stuck to two gloved fingers. He swiveled, shining the light in the direction of the window. The door. Correction. The space where the door should have been.
No Clark. No Martha Kent. Another scene of destruction. Another call to be made.
Lex got a bad feeling about the penthouse key. He swallowed uneasily and removed his cell phone, dialing with an unsteady hand.
Gwen called from the bathroom. "The water's getting cold."
"Be there in a minute," Clark answered. He held the unconscious Martha in his arms. The hallway turned into bedroom. Clark dropped his mother on the bed, scanned the vicinity. "Thought so," he said, grinning widely. The alarm code for the panic room would be unnecessary.
Clark swung the bookcase away and forced the vault-heavy door open. He scooped up Martha and deposited her carelessly into the room, plopping her onto a cot. The door closed as Martha came to. She watched helplessly as Clark put a fist through the phone, pulverizing concrete. "Cla--" she screamed, her voice cut off completely by the thud of steel.
Clark wasn't sure if heat vision was more appropriate, but he got more pleasure from mashing the door shut, torturing its steel frame. Martha Kent would be there until he decided otherwise. It had most of the amenities of home. Food, sink, toilet.
Clark entered the bathroom, nude, carrying an arm full of candles. "Close your eyes." Gwen did so without question. She felt a rush of air a millisecond before Clark slid into the tub. "You missed a spot," Clark said, taking the sponge in hand.
"Can I open my eyes?"
Clark's tongue flicked out, tenderly sampling nipple for taste and texture. He lingered, kissing Gwen's breast. "Of course," he said, his voice sex-husky.
Gwen peeked and saw a transformed landscape, glowing amber.
Clark handed Gwen the sponge. She took it eagerly and, as she dragged the sponge over Clark's chest, she took note that the boy on the verge of manhood she'd met seemed wholly absent. This man seemed larger somehow.
Maybe it was a trick of the lighting.
Gwen quivered involuntarily.
"Cold?"
"No. Water's still warm. Barely," she teased.
"Then -"
"- It's nothing, Clark."
"Really?" he seemed unconvinced. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"
"No." Gwen leaned in, drew Clark's lips into her own and sucked them hard. "I wouldn't."
Clark stood, reaching for a towel. Gwen followed. Clark toweled first, drying himself with swift strokes of oversized terry cloth. He padded out of the bathroom. "Dinner?" she asked.
Clark answered from the hallway, his tone vaguely disinterested. "Fix whatever you want. Or order something. Check the PDA on the desk. I'll be back soon."
No, he thought. Preoccupied was a better description of his current mental state.